


And I Will Tell the Night

by orphan_account



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Trans Male Character, ambiguous timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:55:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5417906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carl struggles with his mother's death, dysphoria, and thoughts of dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Will Tell the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This show is slowly taking over my life. I headcanon Carl and Daryl as trans; they're also my favorite characters. I'm too behind in the show to work with any real plot (though I know any and all spoilers) so take this ambiguous slop. A lot of things and characters have been omitted simply because it's more of a character study than anything, and also I'm lazy. Carl is 14/15 probably. 
> 
> Heavily inspired by "Timshel" by Mumford & Sons.

At first Carl mistook the slow pangs in his stomach for hunger, but when they persisted even after he scraped a can of baked beans empty he knew it had to be something else. The next morning, as everyone began packing up camp and deciding which aimless direction to head toward next, Daryl's hand fell heavily onto his shoulder. He looked up from his backpack, bemused.

“Why don't you help me check the traps?” Daryl asked with a pointed nod to the trees. Carl glanced at his father, who was bent over a map with Glenn and Maggie and Judith on his hip, and stood.

It was quiet, the bustling camp slowly fading to be replaced with the sounds of dead leaves crunching underfoot, a creek gurgling in the distance, the autumnal breeze whistling between branches. Daryl knelt to remove a rabbit from a trap and Carl stood at his back, keeping watch, knife held tight in his hand. As he turned his left his stomach seized again, and he grit his teeth.

Daryl rose, fisting the rabbit by its ears. Carl relaxed his jaw.

At the third trap and second rabbit Daryl said, “Mind tellin' me what's botherin' you?”

Carl glanced at him, startled. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” Daryl grunted.

Carl opened his mouth, but then whirled around at a far away groan.

“Shit,” Daryl swore, quickly bringing his crossbow 'round.

“I got it,” Carl said, stalking forward. Daryl paused, holding back.

The walker was a few yards away, stumbling beside the creek bed, skin hanging off in patches. Another was across the creek, turning to the noise its counterpart made, and pitched over the bank, into the water.

Daryl walked forward at the sound of the splash. Carl lifted a hand, then raced forward and disposed of the first walker. Daryl threw rocks into the stream and the second resurfaced.

“Don't,” Carl said when Daryl lifted his crossbow. “You could lose the arrow in the water.” He stepped into the river.

Daryl caught his arm. “Hold it!”

“I'm fine.” Carl wrenched away. He took off his father's hat, his holster, his flannel, and his shirt, then rolled up his pants. The era of decency had passed, and Daryl was basically his step-father, and Carl's battle-hardened adrenaline shuttered away any unease about his bare chest. “Let me do this.”

Daryl's lip curled. “Rick'll kill me,” he sighed in admission.

Carl grinned. “Good thing he isn't here.”

A wide column of sunlight broke through the trees where the walker floated noisily. Carl waded into the water, until it rose to his chest, knife held up above his head. He whistled sharply, a trick he had unknowingly picked up from Daryl. “Come on,” he egged, edging backward. The walker's legs kicked frenzily as its head bobbed up and down, gaping mouth filling with water. “Come on!” Carl repeated. When the walker was an arms length away he drove his knife down into its rotten skull before it could move further, and dragged it up to shore.

Daryl kicked it over onto its face as Carl redressed and wiped his knife off on his wet jeans.

Daryl stopped at the third trap to pick up the fallen rabbits. Carl glanced back at the creek. Something had broken loose in his chest and he felt empty and off-kilter. His heart beat wildly.

“Hear somethin' else?” Daryl asked. He watched Carl closely like he knew something, eyes narrowed perceptively.

“No.” Carl blinked a few times and resumed walking. “Let's head back.”

As he stepped over a fallen branch something hot flared between his legs. He faltered and nearly tripped. Daryl's hand was on his back. “What the fuck's wrong, kid?”

Carl ripped away. “Nothing.” Suddenly his eyes were burning. He crossed his arms. “Just leave me alone.”

“Look,” Daryl snapped, “you're either talking to me or your old man.” He softened, nudging Carl's chin up. “If it's what I think it is, your daddy'll be clueless.”

Carl scowled. “If you already know, there's nothing to talk about.”

“I'd let you go if I knew you'd be alright. But you aren't.”

Of course he wasn't. How was he supposed to deal with this? Maybe once upon a time it wouldn't be so impossible, but now everything felt inescapable. Carl just scoffed and turned away, walking back to camp. With every step it only got worse.

Daryl fell in step behind him. “Your daddy told me your momma was a late bloomer.”

“I know,” Carl said. She'd talked about it, once, in passing, before...before. Said maybe he'd have enough time for them to find a doctor before he'd ever have to experience it. Well, it was time, and there were no doctors. Carl wished his mother could still brush his hair back with her soft hands and tell him it'd be okay. Instead, Daryl slipped something into his pocket, patted his hip, and let him return to moping in solitude.

Carl headed back into the trees before they left, behind a thick bush, and unzipped his jeans. There was a small spot of blood and he wanted to cry. He pulled out the pad Daryl gave him, ripped it open, and shoved it into his boxers. The smell overwhelmed him when he zipped up again. He felt disgusting, and wiped the tears off of his face before returning to camp.

Ignoring Daryl's gaze, he shouldered his backpack and hopped into the truck with his father and Judith. Everyone else sat in the truck bed. Daryl was directly behind the window, crossbow resting between his knees. Carl kept his eyes on the desolate road ahead.

They found a small roadside gas station leading into the interstate, secluded enough to have been left intact. The door was locked. Rick wrapped a spare towel around a crowbar and smashed the glass pane to reach inside and unlock it.

He and Carl perused the aisles for supplies and imperishables, boots thumping loudly against the clean linoleum floor. Outside, Glenn and Maggie collected gas. Carol held Beth. Daryl stood at the mouth of the gravel road, holding his crossbow.

Carl threw warm water bottles into his backpack, along with cans of Spam and baby food. Rick rounded the corner with a few travel-size first aid kits and a box of tampons. Carl stared at him and he reddened. “For Maggie and Carol,” he said, and Carl wasn't sure if his father was lying or not.

Loaded up again, they swung back around, avoiding the interstate, ambling on because there was nothing left to do but move until they found a place to settle that was fortified, or rather easily fortified; strong enough to sink into the illusion of safety before their luck once again ran out and they had to bite the bullet again.

Judith slept on Carl's chest. The sun was setting; they'd have to stop soon. As he watched the orange sky he regarded his sister with thoughts his parents' must've dealt with long ago, thoughts of her future, her fate, her death, whether anything was worth the inevitable pain. It distracted him from his menial worries, and suddenly it struck him that he'd never seen an undead infant, the rotting corpse of a baby crying with murder in its eyes. Nausea washed over him, and Carl leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“You've been quiet, lately,” Rick said. “You alright?”

Carl stiffened. Daryl probably told his dad what happened, and now Rick was going to try and wrestle it out of him with his easy, condescending concern.

“Yeah,” he replied, not opening his eyes.

Rick was silent. He pulled over to an old rest stop. Judith squirmed on Carl's chest. He passed her to his dad and opened the door. “I'll go clear it out.”

Daryl spoke from the truck bed. “Hey, kid, where d'you--”

“He's fine,” Rick said.

“I'll go with him,” Glenn offered.

Maggie hopped down. “Me too.”

They walked slow in tight formation, like a three pointed star with Carl facing north, knives in hand. The noise from the truck must've attracted walkers. They stopped to listen.

“Ten 'o clock,” Maggie whispered.

Carl swallowed, tightening the grip on his knife. Three walkers rounded the side of the rest stop, black against the sunset. One for each of them. One way to go out for each of them. It could happen.

The three walkers shambled toward them. Maggie and Glenn attacked while Carl hung back. The walker that advanced toward him was old, fat, purple and green with rot, a baseball cap still slung over his head. Judith's cry from the parking lot startled him into action—he took the walker's shoulder and shoved his knife up through the neck and out the base of the skull. The walker fell, its hat dropping before Carl's boots. A Budweiser logo emblazoned on the front.

Two more walkers were dispatched outside. Inside, there were four locked inside of the men's restroom. No bite marks. Probably died of starvation.

They were all dragged out back in a pile. Judith was out front with her bottle, held close against Rick's chest so she wouldn't notice the stench. Again, Carl wondered if any of this was worth it. He got a canister of gas from the truck before anyone else could, poured a small amount over the bodies, and struck a match. He watched the flames catch, watched the skin blacken, and threw the Budweiser cap in as the fire ate all the color from the darkening sky.

The heat made him sweat, though he barely registered it. Daryl approached him, silent and slow, like he was some flighty deer. Almost as if to prove him wrong, Carl turned around and yelled, “What?”

Daryl's face glowed orange. “Why don't you head back to your dad,” he suggested.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Carl looked back at the fire. The destruction sent his head into a tailspin, seeing the burning flesh, smelling the gasoline and smoke and slime. It was so bright it hurt his eyes. “Because.”

“Alright.” Daryl crossed his arms.

“I don't want you here,” Carl said. “Go away.” That void in his chest broke open again, sucking him in like a black hole.

Daryl shook his head. “Nah.”

“Leave!” Carl hit his chest and backed up closer to the flames.

Daryl reached out for him. “Kid--”

“Leave me alone!”

His father's voice suddenly rang through the heavy air. “What's going on?”

Daryl didn't move or look away from Carl. Rick strode forward, Judith gone.

Carl took another step back. The fire was hot, stinging his neck, licking up underneath his clothes. He imagined falling back into it, wondered what Daryl would do, or his father. He wished his mother were here to scream and pull him into her arms. Instead, Daryl stood still, forcing him to think, to suffer with his thoughts, to make his own choices, and his father looked between them both, unsure of whom to speak to.

“Carl,” Rick said, his voice mangled with the word. “Carl, calm down.”

Daryl barred Rick's chest with his arm and placated him with a smoldering glare.

Maggie saw them, eyes widening. “What's wrong? Carl?”

Carl inhaled sharply at her scared voice, reality slamming back into him. He pushed past his father and Daryl. They ran after him as he rummaged through the truck and found a flashlight. “I'm gonna go check the perimeter.”

Daryl caught his wrist. “Slow down, slick.”

“Are you okay?” It was Maggie, shoving in between Daryl and Rick. Glenn and Carol looked on nervously. Maggie smiled sadly and wound her arm around Carl's shoulders. “I'll go with you.”

She was soft, unlike his father or Daryl, soft around the edges with gentle eyes. Daryl let go of his wrist and his father stepped away begrudgingly.

Maggie murmured a few words to Glenn, then cheerfully brandished her knife and beckoned Carl to come with her into the forest. He dazedly followed her, lighting the way, allowing her to take point. Daryl and Rick immediately began talking in hushed whispers when they thought he was out of earshot.

“I'm really glad we found that gas station,” she said to break the silence. Her shoulders were squared, spine ramrod straight, constantly scanning the trees for any signs of movement, and she still spoke in her casual tone. “We were about outta supplies.”

“Yeah,” Carl said.

Maggie lifted her hand. Carl stopped, pointing the light downward. When nothing stirred they continued on.

“Judith's teeth are gonna start comin' in soon. Maybe we'll find her somethin' to chew on. Someplace to lay down so she can wail her 'lil heart out.”

Carl nodded. Judith's teeth were growing. Soon she'd be talking. Then she'd be walking, and running, and eating solid food, and he'd teach her how to shoot, how to use a knife, how to pull a trigger. He realized Maggie couldn't see him nod and said, “Sure.”

That stuff between his legs was getting worse as he walked. The fire was a small flicker behind him, small as a candle flame.

Maggie said, “Maybe we'll find a nice little house, like the farm. Stay there. Build a nice wall.”

“That'd be cool,” Carl said, not believing any of it.

“Glenn and I could have kids.” Maggie's voice turned wistful. They stopped again, then headed left, deeming this side of the perimeter clear. “I don't know. It probably won't happen.”

“Probably not,” Carl said.

Maggie looked at him, the flashlight illuminating her face, her furrowed eyebrows, her busted lip. “What's gotten into you?” she asked, not unkindly.

“Nothing.” He looked away, to the shadows.

“You get in a fight with Daryl and your dad?”

“Somethin' like that,” he said lowly.

Maggie smiled at his admission. “What about?”

“Stuff.”

“I hate stuff,” she said.

A branch snapped. They were north, now, parallel with the fire. Maggie turned. Carl shone the light. Neither of them breathed. A walker could be heard dragging his feet, faint and far away.

“It ain't close,” Maggie said.

“We should still get it,” Carl said, thinking of Judith, her safety, her death. “It'll be coming close to the fire anyway. It'll see it, maybe attract more.”

Maggie snorted. “I don't know if you're more like Rick or Daryl.”

He walked ahead without replying, keeping the light cast down over the leaves. “There,” he said, stopping. The walker was just a wraith in the dark, but then it moaned at the sight of light. Maggie took a step forward and the walker entered their field of vision. She stabbed it in the eye and it dropped to the dirt and they walked on.

The walker seemed to ruin Maggie's little dream. Carl lapsed back into silence, and she stopped asking things. They felled a few more walkers, then started heading back to the lot. By now the fire was just a heap of embers, and they walked without its guiding light.

Carl wished he had something to say. The quiet felt like his fault. But he didn't want to talk about anything. Not about his father, his sister, or himself. It would just remind him why he wasn't a good son, brother, or man.

“I grabbed a deck of cards,” he said. “We can play some poker.”

Maggie's eyes crinkled with her smile. “Sure. That'd be nice.”

“I hope you can find your house one day,” he added.

“I know we will,” she said.

He pursed his lips, and pieces of himself were falling, like the walkers, like dust, like discarded memories on the side of the road.

Maggie walked back to the rest stop and Carl sat down at the base of a tree, legs stretched out in front of him. He shut the flashlight off. Barely saw anything. The stars glittered up above him, through the leaves.

“He seemed better,” he heard Maggie say. “He was right behind me.”

Carl covered his face with his hands as footsteps approached him.

“Hey,” his father greeted softly, dropping beside him. He held Carl against his side. “You gotta talk, son. It won't get better if you don't.”

Carl dropped his hands. “I want to talk to Mom,” he admitted honestly.

“I know,” Rick said thickly. “Do you miss her?”

“Yeah.” Carl swallowed. “I do.”

“Like what?”

Carl closed his eyes. “Her hands.”

Rick shifted. “Her hands?”

“When she held me. Or played with my hair.”

Rick took Carl's hat off and threaded his fingers through his hair. “Like that?”

“Kind of,” Carl said. A knot formed in his throat.

“What else do you miss?”

“Her voice.” My sweet boy. The best thing I ever did. “Do you think she'd be proud of me?”

“Of course,” Rick said.

“I don't think Heaven's real anymore,” Carl confessed. “I don't think she can see me. I'll never see her again.”

“Don't say that.” Rick squeezed him. “Please.”

“Why? It's true.” Carl didn't pull away. “I have to live with that.”

Rick remained silent for a moment. Then he said, “Judith looks like your mom. Whenever you see Judith, that's part of her. You're a part of her too.”

Carl looked down at his hands. They were small, soft, soft around the edges like Maggie and his mother. They weren't wide like his dad's. They were calloused, but there wasn't anything manly about them. They were a woman's hands. He touched his own cheek.

“I can live with that,” he said, and meant it, but didn't know how long it would last.

 


End file.
